Beneath a Moonless Sky
by blankgreyzone
Summary: The ten years between the Opera Populaire and the Cony Island freakshow are shrouded in mist, the vaguest details. A strangely retired opera singer, a child with a foggy identity, a drunkard building up nothing but debt, and a mysterious phantom running a freakshow on Con Island all take center stage in this bridge between stories.
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p style="margin: 0px 0px 10px;"span style="font-family: 'times new roman', times, serif;"span style="color: windowtext;"span style="background-color: inherit;"Frothy dresses and pungent flowers clouded her mind to the point where she could not breathe, so choked by the whirlwind of the wedding. It was made out to be a sin if she was not constantly laboring toward the moment where she would give her soul away once and for all, one last moment as a /span/spanspan style="color: #252525;"span style="background-color: inherit;"Daaé/spanspan style="background-color: inherit;" before her father's last name was tossed to the wind. He hadn't had any sons, and at the moment when she realized she would become a de Chagny she started to wish that she had a brother as well./span/span br /br /span style="color: #252525;"span style="background-color: inherit;""Damn it all," she murmured underneath her breath, too exhausted to guard her tongue. After/spanspan style="background-color: inherit;" all, she was practically tramping through her crushed dreams as she picked her way through the burned opera house. "He is such a dramatic fool-"/span/span /span/p  
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p style="margin: 0px 0px 10px;"span style="font-family: 'times new roman', times, serif;"span style="color: #252525;"span style="background-color: inherit;"Even though she presumed that her former teacher was dead, she still froze and straightened, as if she could smell his /spanspan style="background-color: inherit;"presence/spanspan style="background-color: inherit;" in the /spanspan style="background-color: inherit;"air. If/spanspan style="background-color: inherit;" he heard her teasing him who knows what he would do. /span/spanemspan style="background-color: inherit;"I'm sorry, /span/emspan style="color: #252525;"span style="background-color: inherit;"she thought, her hands desperately /spanspan style="background-color: inherit;"wringing her /spanspan style="background-color: inherit;"skirts. She/spanspan style="background-color: inherit;" tried to convince herself that he had a purpose to burning the house down, but it became harder and harder to think of as her satin slippers crunched the smoldering ruins while she made her way to the /spanspan style="background-color: inherit;"dormitories. So/spanspan style="background-color: inherit;" much beauty, so absolutely ruined./span/spanbr /br /"Master?" She called, her voice ringing through the blackened high ceilings. Soot seemed to float down at the obstruction of peace and she wished she could gulp her hasty words away again. "It's Christine." She felt foolish for even saying who it was. Of course he recognized her /br /Her stays seemed to cut in her ribs as her breath increased with nervousness, and she tucked a curl behind her ear while stepping nto the almost-inaccessible dormitory she used to sleep in. The rows of cheap beds were collapsed, covered in fallen beams. They were right by the stage and suffered greatly from the fire, she was soon /br /Against her better judgment, she knelt in her clean white dress to pull the trunk from beneath her own bed. The wood was covered in black ash as everything else was, but when she opened it the contents were clean. Her practice clothing, slips, other intimate items she had kept away from prying eyes. A dried flower from her husband-to-be, battered pointe shoes from her debut as a ballet girl, her father's precious violin, a few notes from the opera ghost himself in his scrawling calligraphy. They were parceled together, the oldest simple instructions, breathing exercises she must do, comments on her latest performance in the ballet, professional and distant. But they slowly progressed to wishes for her, letters of desires that she found under her pillow, the subjects so scandalous they made her cheeks flush and she quickly buried them. He was always so good at baring his soul and then becoming furious at those who saw /br /She gathered the contents of the trunk, meager in number but so dear to her heart. emThis is what I came for,/em she told herself, emthis and only this./em But as she heard the inevitable strands of music coming through the cracks of the floor, she felt rooted to her position there. The sound was so haunted, so unearthly that she found it unfit for her human ears. There was only one someone who would be playing like that in the catacombs of the opera /br /How did he survive? Between the fire and the mobs he certainly should have been killed. Meg told her he had fled, smashed his mirrors and left, and she had to pretend to be glad. emI was glad,/em she informed herself, even though she knew better. She hadn't wanted to see her teacher go, not after their rather unfortunate /br /Christine had been kissed many times by many boys, for she was pretty and sweet and too polite to turn anyone away. Chaste pecks on the cheeks from smitten boys, intrusive and bitter ones from stagehands after hours, deeper and longer ones, filled with passion, from her dear Raoul. But as her fingers brushed over her lips, she couldn't help but remember the one that stood above the /br /As she was perched on the floor, her dress covered in soot, she wondered what the ghost's name was for the first true time. He had been her teacher, her beloved instructor who changed her life-she had almost turned into his wife and it suddenly seemed quite foolish that she did not have the faintest idea what his name /br /Her body forced itself up and she precariously stepped over the decay and debris to her old dressing room, lifting the heavy black curtain before stepping through the mirror entrance. When she first discovered the secret passageway, she once again felt foolish for not knowing that was the exact manner the phantom had accessed her. As it always was when the architect himself was not with her, the hallway seemed macabre and dreary, her steps and dripping water echoing too loudly as she wound her way down the stairs. br /br /Christine's emotions were too numb from the whirlwind of change that the mice scampering over her soiled slippers did not frighten her, her hands clasped placidly during her descent. "Master?" She called, her voice sounding just as loud as her footsteps. He didn't answer, but his music crescendoed until goose bumps appeared on her arms. Only two men were able to affect her so with the melodies and one was buried under the cold dirt, but once again she felt unworthy to be privy to such a masterful /br /"Master," she called again with more certainty, on the opposite end of the lake. emIf only I knew his name, it sounds so formal/em, she couldn't help but think. It was pitch black, but she could sense his presence as if he was right beside her, sharing body heat. br /br /The music abruptly stopped, and she heard the clattering of his bench smacking the floor. "Who is it?" He first asked in a gruff, furious voice, but it softened a moment later. "Christine? What are you doing here?" A few moments later she heard the noise of him climbing into the boat, the oars beginning to slice through the water as he came to retrieve /br /"I wanted to pick up some of my belongings," she told him in a meek voice, as if she needed to apologize for returning to her home. "When I was kneeling by my trunk I heard you playing and thought I should come speak to you. I had no idea that you were still here."br /br /There was silence for a brief time, but he continued to row the boat forward. "You're a fool for coming, Christine," he told her, his voice gruff once again. "You have no business being up in those fools' theaters, or down here, for that matter. You're a fool."br /br /"You would not be the first to tell me that," she commented quietly, her eyes closing for a moment as she adjusted to the dark. He had a few candles lit, but not enough for her to see anything more than his hulking black silhouette, the fabric stretched taut against his back. She studied the lines of him while she could, while it was dark and he wouldn't chastise her for it. She could never tell what sort of mood he was in, if he would welcome her gaze or bellow at her for /br /A low noise came from the base of his throat and she couldn't tell if it was a laugh or a grunt of disagreement. "You are a fool, Miss span style="color: #252525; background-color: inherit;"Daaé, a damned beautiful fool."/spanbr /br /Christine wasn't sure if it was a compliment or not, so she said nothing in response to it. "What were you playing earlier?"br /br /"Never mind that," he spat back, immediately growing hostile again when she inquired about his craft. "It wasn't fit for anyone else's ears yet and it would not have been playing if I knew there was an intruder in my theater."br / br /She arched one eyebrow. "An intruder? I don't know if I would call myself an intruder, considering how many years I have lived and trained here, master."br /br /A shiver went down his whole body at the word on her lips. It had seemed so innocent, so respectful as a child, but had a whole different chilling effect she was now a grown woman. "Regardless, I did not know you were here and you had no business hearing that particular score yet."br /br /"Regardless, it was lovely," she responded, watching his black silhouette leap out of the boat before a gloved hand reached to assist her out. He was wearing gloves while he played? It seemed odd, but she knew better than to question him on such particular things that didn't matter in the grand scheme of /br /The phantom's hand lingered, keeping her soft, white palm pressed against his for a moment. He found it funny how his completely engulfed hers, swallowed it whole. She had always been a tiny creature, delicate, fragile, feminine. The epitome of a ballet girl, the only one of the whole lot he could stand. Their bawdy laughter, crude drinking, their flirtatious mannerisms as they tried to seduce any man who would give them the time of day. Her quiet and elegant spirit had attracted him to her more than she would ever know. She seemed to be his foil, and yet, she was the only one who had ever served as his muse in such a magnitude. Christine span style="color: #252525; background-color: inherit;"Daaé/spanspan style="color: #252525; background-color: inherit;" /spanwas an utter work of art to /br /"You shouldn't have come here," he repeated, turning away from her before he did something that he would regret. She would recoil, and he would have to see that look of absolute terror upon her face as if he was a beast she believed would devour her in two. He would love to devour her, but not in the ways she seemed to assume. "It's not safe."br /br /Christine slowly bent down to set the piano bench back up from its sad position. "Are you speaking of the ruined opera house or the catacombs with a ruined opera ghost?"br /br /"Both," he murmured, turning his back to her to shuffle through some papers, attempting to appear busy so he wouldn't have to look upon her again. "Neither are safe."br /br /"Master," emif only I knew his name, /em"I was worried that you had escaped as Meg had told me. Why do you stay here? There's no life, no one to appreciate your creations. I don't understand the point of remaining here when the breath of your art has departed."br /br /He stiffened considerably when that small, soft, white palm rested against his spine. "If you believe that the breath of my art has departed than you truly are a great fool, Miss span style="color: #252525;"Daaé, and you deserve your commupance." He whipped around and caught her wrist, his hand so easily wrapping around it. He could snap the bones so easily, cause her scarlet blood to spill all over that white flesh he longed to touch more often than he /br /"You don't mean that," she whispered, for she truly wasn't as daft as he sometimes found her. The opera ghost had a way of making her feel so inferior, so dreadfully stupid that she had no business even attempting conversation with him. He was a master at belittling her just as he was a master at improving her. It was funny, his teaching method. When her voice would sour to new heights, her range increasing or her vibrato more controlled, when she was able to sustain longer phrases, he seemed to crack down with new imperfections that had to be fixed. It was never good enough, hardly ever embetter/em, even though she had went from sounding like a rusty hinge to bringing all of Paris to their knees. br /br /"What do I not mean?" He asked, grip tightening around her wrist. "That you deserve your comeuppance or that you are the breath of my art?" His voice started to grow in volume and he was afraid he would truly snap her delicate limb. "Are you marrying that fool? Are you truly leaving here, everything you have known and loved, everything that has fostered you and nourished you through your childhood?"br /br /Her eyes widened a little at his rage and that look was enough for him to drop her hand as if it was on fire. He could never stand that look, especially on her. It was entertaining-satisfying, even-on everyone else, but not on her. Not on Christine. "You left me no choice, as you brought down the ceiling."br /br /"Fool," he murmured again. Of course she assumed he was speaking of the opera house, not of himself. The house was nothing, he was her lifeblood. She would still be a chorus girl in the back of the ballet and not the most coveted woman in all of France if it weren't for him. "I hope you understand that he would have taken no interest in you if it were not for my tutelage. He needs a well-to-do wife, not an insignificant little member of the corps de ballet, a nobody. I made you!"/spanbr /br /She uttered back, "Yes, you are the potter but he would be nothing without a good clay to work with."br /br /"The fame has gone to your head," he snapped back with a cruel laugh. "You truly are too much, Christine, if you believe that you are that significant."br /br /Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, as all she ever wanted to hear from him was some sort of praise. The positive words came in strange ways, from Madame Giry informing her that he was pleased, from a single rose, from letters he wrote he was furious at her for reading. She just wanted to hear it from his own mouth, for once. "I am not a child, you know," she /br /The opera ghost's laughter boomed through the whole chasm before his voice dropped to an insanely low and menacing volume. "I know perfectly well that you are not a child, Miss span style="color: #252525;"Daaé, and it is a great cause of strain and grief for me," he hissed, suddenly wishing there was more light for he knew just how her chest heaved above her bodice when her emotions were running rampant and he found it to be the most captivating thing on earth. br /br /"I'm not sure that I believe that," she responded slowly, her voice betraying just how shaky her feelings were at the present conversation, the dark undertones creeping into his words. It was the ultimate game of cat and mouse and Christine was ready to surrender-she had spent too long playing an inevitable game. br /br /Without a moment's hesitation even though his brain scolded himself for it the moment after, he told her, "Then let me show you just how much of a woman I think you are."/span/span/p  
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